


never in our favour

by angelic_angel



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:40:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25676740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelic_angel/pseuds/angelic_angel
Summary: renjun volunteers because he needs to win.yukhei volunteers because he wants to die.they meet somewhere in the middle.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Wong Yuk Hei | Lucas
Comments: 35
Kudos: 48





	1. chapter i: the reaping

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like most of my fics, this was inspired by another movie hehe. i've been a huge fan of the hunger games series for a really long time, but i apologise for any inaccuracies! as indicated by the tags, this fic will be pretty heavy and i will continue to update them as the story progresses. 
> 
> i really hope you enjoy reading this one.  
> kudos and comments are always appreciated :)

The scent of burning coal seemed stronger than usual as Renjun walked through the derelict streets of the Seam, making his eyes sting and his head hurt. Everything seemed eerily quiet, except for the crunch of coal dust and grit beneath his tattered boots and the irritating cooing of a pigeon in the far-off distance. It was early – too early – but Renjun needed to get to the Hob before the rest of District 12 awoke. He had heard from Yangyang that there’d be a good amount of scrap loaves on offer, too burnt and dry to be sold to those living in the better-off parts of town. It wasn’t much, hardly enough to feed his family, but Renjun needed to get them something, even if it was the last thing he could ever provide for them.

He tried to ignore the way his stomach churned and his palms dampened with sweat. He tried to forget the pitying look Kun had given him the night before as they were huddled in their shared bed, their other siblings snoring softly beside them. He tried not to think about the inevitability of tears, shed by him, his family, his friends, their district.

Renjun tried to ignore it all, but as the sky grew lighter and the smell of coal grew harsher, he knew it would be harder and harder to do so.

It was cold, unusually so for the time of year, cool wind nipping at Renjun’s fingertips and nose. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his ratty trousers as he approached the Hob, the dilapidated patchwork of metal scraps and wood towering over him like Frankenstein’s monster. Even under the stench of coal dust and paraffin, he could make out the vague saltiness of stew, the bitterness of coffee and the sweetness of wine. His fingers brushed against the few coins in his pocket, the price of another Renjun, another Chenle, another Sicheng. They wouldn’t be needing any oil for a while, and the temptation to spend the extra money on sweet buns for Shuhua was strong, but Renjun knew his mother would be angry, and his father even more so. Usually, money wasn’t good around the Hob, most vendors preferring items in exchange for their goods like food or clothes, but today would be an exception. Today, no one would question why Renjun handed them coins instead of wild thyme.

As soon as he entered the Hob, it was like life had pressed the play button again, the air thick with loud bartering, the clinking of glass and the general hum of conversation.

“Ah, Renjun! You’re early.”

Mrs Lui, Yangyang’s mother, looked several years older than she actually was but spoke like someone half her age. Even though the sun had barely risen, she seemed chipper as she organised her basket of baked goods, a cheerful smile on her face as her twinkling eyes spotted the teenager.

“Hmm,” he nodded with a smile of his own, wearier and far more strained than Mrs Lui’s. He didn’t think she would blame him. In all honesty Renjun was surprised that today, of all days, she seemed even more upbeat than usual. “I wanted to surprise them with breakfast.”

He didn’t need to explain who he was referring to. Everyone who lived in the Seam knew the Huang family. Everyone knew Renjun’s mother, calm and beautiful, and his father, sharp and handsome. Everyone knew his brothers, Kun and Sicheng and Chenle, knew his sisters Shuhua and Yuqi. Everyone knew that they were one of the biggest families in the Seam, but also one of the poorest. Everyone knew that today, there was a chance they were going to grow smaller.

“That is a _lovely_ idea, Renjun,” Mrs Lui responded in a gentle voice, still smiling. As Renjun got closer to her stall he could see the deep lines that riddled her face like roads on a map, crinkling the paper-thin skin around her eyes and the corners of her upturned mouth. Renjun wondered if Yangyang would look like her when he got older. If he got older.

She gestured to the wicker baskets sitting in front of her, eyebrows raised questioningly. “What would you like?”

Renjun’s brow drew into a frown of concentration as he inspected the contents of the baskets, silently contemplating what would be worth the most for the least amount. The piles of honey bread and fruit scones looked tempting, but he already knew that even for the Hob they were far out of his price range. His eyes flickered between loaves and rolls, his nostrils invaded by the comforting, warm scent of bread, hardly even registering that most of them were a little stale. Eventually, he landed on the basket at the end; the outlier, the runt of the pack. It was a little bigger than the others, but it was far from being better.

The loaves looked a little fresher than the rest, but the crusts were as black and as hard as the coal his father mined. Maybe Chenle would complain that they were being fed bread no better than rocks, and maybe Shuhua would spit it out of her mouth and cry, but it was all that Renjun could give them.

With his mouth set into a grim line and fierce determination in his eyes, Renjun pulled out the coins jingling in his stitched-up pocket.

“How much for all of those?”

By the time Renjun arrived home, the sun had fully risen, casting District 12 in a brightness so blinding and hot that his shirt stuck to his back like a second skin, damp with the stickiness of his sweat. The cool air earlier that morning had deceived him, and Renjun felt suitably betrayed.

Chenle was in the centre of the kitchen, sitting in the metal tub they used for bathing and humming to himself as he vigorously scrubbed his grubby skin with a rag. Sicheng and Yuqi were already dressed in their nicest clothes, shirts buttoned up to their necks despite the heat, solemnly sipping on mugs of nettle tea. He could hear Shuhua chattering excitedly to their mother in the other room, and Renjun’s heart tightened.

“Where’ve you been?” Sicheng asked sternly, his back as stiff as his starched white shirt. His dark brows were pulled together in a frown, his mouth downturned too, and Renjun could see why so many people likened Sicheng to their father.

“Just to get bread,” Renjun sighed, holding up the cloth sack as evidence. Sicheng had probably thought that he’d gone wandering into the woods again, but Renjun wasn’t stupid enough to do that today. The place would be crawling with peacekeepers. He didn’t have a death sentence, even though the Capitol had one out for all of them.

The crease between Sicheng’s brows didn’t weaken, his eyes growing from angry to worried. Renjun could see the dark shadows resting underneath them, a bruising shade of purple. He probably looked just as bad, maybe even worse.

“Ooh, what did you get?” Yuqi asked as Renjun placed the bundle on the wooden table, her smooth voice filled with curiosity.

If Sicheng looked like their father, then Yuqi was their mother’s twin. Her hair was pitch black, long and wild like tree roots, but as soft and silky as a raven’s feather. Renjun remembered being envious of it when he was younger, eyeing the way it fell down her back like melted tar. Sometimes, she would let Renjun braid it, allowing him to twist the strands into a sad excuse of a plait as they sat on the collapsing porch of their house.

Ten years later and he had gotten pretty good, his fingers far more flexible and skilled than they had been when they were children, but today it looked like their mother had done it, snow white ribbon intertwined with locks of obsidian.

“Don’t get too excited,” Renjun muttered, chewing his lip as he poured tea into a chipped mug. He could hear Yuqi excitedly unwrapping the bundle, and he found himself waiting for the groan of disappointment that he knew was coming. He hovered above the stove, steam clouding in front of his face as his hand tightly clutched the teapot in anticipation. He didn’t want to see that disappointment. Not today. Not yet.

But the disappointment never came. Instead, as Renjun watched tiny particles of nettle leaves swirl in his cup, there was silence. Chenle’s humming had stopped, and he couldn’t even hear his mother murmuring quietly to Shuhua through the closed door. Nothing. Renjun placed the teapot down with a metallic clang, too loudly, like someone shouting in the reverent stillness of a church. He took a deep breath, preparing for Sicheng’s berating glare or Yuqi’s gloomy mood or Chenle’s shrill whining.

But it didn’t come. None of it.

Instead, footsteps sounded from behind him, audible against the worn wood of the floor. Renjun held his breath, waiting, waiting, _waiting_ -

A pair of arms appeared and wrapped themselves around Renjun from behind, warm and gentle as they squeezed gently. He could feel Sicheng’s chest pressing against his back, could smell the rosemary soap on his skin, could hear the thickness of Sicheng’s voice as he spoke.

“Thank you, Junnie,” the older boy whispered, his voice cracking on the nickname. Renjun let out a shuddering breath, his own eyes prickling with tears. He didn’t want to cry. Not now. It had been a long time since Sicheng had used that name, the one he had given Renjun when they were so small they could barely wrap their tongues around the unfamiliar vowels of their names.

“Thank you,” Sicheng repeated, and his arms squeezed tighter. Renjun lifted his hand to pat his brother’s arm lightly, unable to push the words past the lump lodged in his throat.

With one last whispered thank you, Sicheng slid his arms back to his side and walked back to the table. Still hovering over his tea, Renjun used the hem of his shirt to dab at his eyes, sniffing surreptitiously, before picking up his mug and turning to face his siblings.

Sicheng was staring into his tea, his own eyes a suspicious shade of red, Chenle was still in the tub even though his skin probably resembled a prune by this point, and Yuqi was watching him with a gentle smile on her face, her eyes glittering in the summer sun.

She didn’t say anything as she bit into the scone, the one of several that Mrs Lui had snuck in the cloth sack when Renjun wasn’t looking, but she didn’t have to. Renjun knew what her smile meant. He knew what Sicheng’s hug meant. He knew what Chenle’s silence meant.

He knew what his siblings meant, just as they knew what the bread laying on the table meant.

Goodbye.

xxx

Everything was so loud. The murmuring of the television. His mother scraping silver cutlery against a porcelain plate. His father’s teeth crunching down on perfectly golden toast. Even his brother’s breathing – all of it was so loud, and Yukhei wanted nothing more than for it all to stop.

If things went as planned, then it would. Everything would stop, for him. For his parents and for Kunhang, life would continue like it always had. Maybe it would be better.

You see, Yukhei _had_ a plan. Not a great one, not even a good one, but a solid plan. He thought that if the plan were not what it was, his father would be proud of him. Then again, yearning for his father’s approval had ultimately been Yukhei’s downfall.

You see, Yukhei was a warrior. Not by choice, but by birth. From the moment he had opened his little eyes and clenched his tiny fists, Yukhei’s father had decided that no purpose in life would ever be greater than winning. It didn’t matter what Yukhei did, his father expected him to win. Whether that be running a little faster than the other boys his age, or learning to use a bow and arrow quicker, or even growing a little taller – his father didn’t care what it was or what it would take. Everything was just a means to an end, the end being a metaphorical trophy in the form of a literal smile and a “You need to do better next time”. It didn’t matter that Yukhei would throw up from exhaustion after training for ten hours straight. It didn’t matter that his knuckles bled or his skin bruised or his ribs cracked. It didn’t matter what Yukhei wanted because his own life was not his to live.

You see, Yukhei was done with winning. He was done with being hailed as the “better twin”. He was done with watching his mother dote on Kunhang, who had always been a little sickly no matter how much medicine he took or how many hours he spent in bed, while his father screamed in his ear for not knocking out his opponent’s teeth. He was done with living this miserable existence where everything was expected of him, but he wasn’t allowed to expect anything in return.

You see, Yukhei wanted to die.

And Yukhei had a plan.

It was a few hours before the reaping would take place, with District 1 being the closest to the Capitol, but his father had awoken him not long after dawn, muttering about how Yukhei should be up and ready to watch the reapings of every other district.

It wasn’t mere entertainment that fuelled his father’s early morning rampage. The man found no thrill in watching someone with neon pink feathers for eyelashes pick names out of a bowl. No. Yukhei’s father forced his son in front of the television so that he could scout out the competition. He didn’t hold a pen and notebook in his hand to take bets. No. He scribbled down the attributes of every tribute, took note of their height and weight, estimated their speed and dexterity, calculated how long it would take for Yukhei to kill them.

Even as the family sat around the dining table, food spreading the length and width of its surface, Yukhei’s father’s eyes were glued to the screen with rapt attention, his hand moving rapidly across the paper without much more than the odd glance.

“Oh boys, you both look so handsome,” Yukhei’s mother gushed, her blood-red lips curled into a frightening grin. Beside Yukhei, Kunhang straightened in his seat, his chest puffing out proudly at their mother’s compliment. Yukhei hid his scoff with a mouthful of grapefruit juice, his jaw clenching as it lapped against his tongue, its taste far more sour than sweet.

“Thank you, mother,” Kunhang said, the smile on his own face a mirror of the woman sitting across from them. Yukhei wondered what had happened when he had been born, what had gone wrong. He wondered why he wasn’t like his mother or his brother; shallow, gullible, naïve. He wondered why he wasn’t like his father, why he couldn’t be the ruthless, strong, calculated warrior that he was supposed to be.

“Yukhei!”

The boy startled, almost dropping his juice. His father’s voice was sharp, cutting through his thoughts like a shard of glass. Yukhei was tall, too tall, but he felt no bigger than a grain of rice when his father looked at him with that withering gaze of his. It was the gaze that won the Hunger Games, is what his father always said. At times like these, Yukhei believed him.

“Yes?” he asked warily, his eyebrow twitching slightly when his voice caught in his throat, the syllable cracking like a television with a poor signal.

“Well, aren’t you going to thank your mother?” his father pushed, pen still clutched in his hand like a poisonous dart. “Or do you think you’re too good for that kind of thing?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to seem rude,” Yukhei apologised quickly, his words coming out in a breathless rush. It didn’t matter that this was probably the last meal he’d have with his father. For the sake of his mother and brother, Yukhei didn’t want to make it worse.

He turned to his mother, gulping guiltily upon seeing her wide eyes and terrible, strained smile. Like a Chesire cat, he thought. “I’m sorry, mother. Thank you. You look lovely too.”

Her smile didn’t budge an inch, her teeth so startlingly white that Yukhei struggled to keep himself from looking away, but her eyes lost their fearful gleam, and Yukhei felt the tightness in his chest dissipate slightly. It didn’t completely go away. It never did these days.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” his father all but spat out before returning his attention to the television.

A man and a woman, dressed in shades of pink and yellow respectively, sat behind a desk, their grins just as wide as Yukhei’s mothers, their teeth just as fake as the sympathy in their eyes. Yukhei could taste the sourness of the grapefruit tickling the back of his throat as he fought down the urge to vomit. This, all of this, was so vile, so disgusting, and if Yukhei didn’t want to die so badly, he wouldn’t want to be a part of it.

But Yukhei did want to die, and he was too much of a coward to do it himself, so he had a plan.

Yukhei had a plan, and today it would be put into action.

Today would be the beginning of Yukhei’s end.

xxx

Renjun had always thought that the Hall of Justice was perhaps the ugliest building in District 12, even compared to the rickety houses in the Seam or the ramshackle walls of the Hob. Something about the clean, grey stone walls and the way they loomed forebodingly above everything else made Renjun’s stomach churn and his skin prickle. Everything about it represented death and mourning all at once, but not life. Renjun had visited the Hall of Justice to sign up for tesserae, along with Sicheng and Chenle. They had done it last year too. And the year before. It was a miracle that none of them, not even Kun whose name had probably been put in nearly forty times by the time he was eighteen, had been named tribute.

Renjun hated the Justice Building even more now, as he stood in front of it surrounded by his peers, his siblings, his family. He hated everything it represented and Renjun wanted nothing more than to set it alight and watch every last brick turn to ash.

What Renjun hated even more, was that he had to pretend that he didn’t hate it. He had to pretend that he didn’t hate the fact that he and his friends were all lined up under the scorching sun awaiting their death sentence. He had to pretend that he and his three siblings all had an equal chance of making it out of here alive. He had to pretend that his hair wasn’t curling against his neck with sweat. He had to pretend that he didn’t hear Yangyang holding back his tears with loud sniffles and clenched fists.

He had to pretend, but Renjun still hated it.

Even though he had scrubbed every inch of his body with soap, he could still smell the coal dust clinging to his skin; the eternal, invisible mark of growing up in the Seam. It wouldn’t matter if he managed to ever move out. It wouldn’t matter how many baths he took or how much perfume he drowned himself in. It wouldn’t even mattered if he died. The scent of the Seam was embedded in your bones, in your soul, and it never let go. Renjun had always hated that too. He never felt clean, even if he scrubbed his skin to a raw shade of red.

For once, he was kind of glad that the scent of coal lingered in the threads of his shirt. If his name was picked, he’d still have it with him. If he had to get on that godforsaken train, it would still be there. Even until the end, Renjun would always have something that reminded him of home.

A shrill screech echoed in the stiflingly silent air as a man dressed in an electric blue, velvet, three-piece suit tapped the microphone. His hair was the same shade, contrasting starkly with the crimson red of Panem’s flag. If Renjun’s eyes weren’t so used to the glaring rays of the relentless sun, he would probably have been startled by the sight.

Clearing his throat, the man leaned into the microphone. The sun hit off his pale skin and something glittered on his face as it caught the light.

“Welcome, citizens of District 12,” he greeted with a voice a little louder than Renjun had expected, one that resounded like they were in a cave. Renjun wondered if the microphone had an echoing effect. He wouldn’t put it past the Capitol. It was pretty obvious by now that they saw the slaughter of children as nothing more than entertainment. Why not add to the theatrical drama?

“I am sure that today has been a day awaited by many of you,” the man continued, with one of those Capitol smiles that chilled Renjun to the bone. He was met with a wall of silence as all of District 12 watched him with barely contained rage. Renjun couldn’t see very well from where he stood, but he thought that the man’s smile faltered for a split second. Good. No one should be smiling today. The man was right: many had been awaiting the reaping. What he had got wrong was the idea that any of them had been looking forward to it. Renjun knew for a fact that the past days and nights, particularly for those who lived in the Seam, had been filled with nothing but dread.

“Since you are all clearly so eager to get on with today’s proceedings, I shan’t bore you with a speech,” the man laughed, giggling horribly into the microphone. It reminded Renjun of the creepy toy Kun had brought back from the Hob a few years prior. It had looked like nothing more than a box at first, with a winding lever on the side. It didn’t take long for it to have Shuhua in tears, screaming when the lid popped open and a little puppet on a spring jumped out, giggling maniacally. Kun had burned it the very next day, but their baby sister had nightmares for weeks afterwards.

Renjun wouldn’t be surprised if his nights from now on were haunted by the memory of this man’s laugh.

“The time has come for us to find out who our lucky tributes will be,” he announced, and the crowd of teenagers all seemed to hold their breath at once, Renjun included. He wanted to look for Yuqi or Sicheng who were behind him, or even for Chenle who stood a few rows ahead, but he couldn’t. His teeth hurt from how hard he was clenching his jaw, scared that if he lost control he’d start to cry.

Beside him, Yangyang reached out a hand and intertwined their sweaty fingers until their palms were pressed together. Renjun’s eyes throbbed, but he squeezed his friend’s hand comfortingly. He wasn’t sure what it meant, what he was trying to say, but Renjun hoped that Yangyang understood. He didn’t care if his friend thought that he was thanking his mother for the scones – just as long as it was more than goodbye.

This time, the man’s smile hadn’t slipped at the lack of response from the crowd, walking over to the glass bowls with all the grace of a swan in flight.

“Ladies first,” he announced, dipping his hand into the bowl and swirling it around, before flicking it out with a flourish, a folded piece of white paper pinched between his fingers.

Renjun’s heart was pounding and he so badly wanted to look back and find his sister, but he knew that if he did, Yuqi wouldn’t even make it up the stairs. The silence as the man unfolded the paper was deafening and Yangyang’s hand in his was the only thing stopping Renjun from screaming.

“Kim Yerim!” the man in blue announced excitedly, as if he had just told the new tribute that she had won the lottery. Renjun didn’t really know Yerim. She was a year older than him and lived in the district’s merchant section, far from the heat and grime of the Seam. Renjun didn’t really know her, but he still felt a pang of sympathy as Yerim’s white face filled the screen beside the Hall of Justice, pallid and terrified. Her eyes, which were probably praised as one of her prettiest features, were wide like a hunted hare and the tears that rapidly fell from them glistened in the afternoon sun.

On shaking legs, she stumbled towards the podium, her white dress making her look like a bride walking down the aisle of some sort of sick wedding. It was silent as she walked between the rows of teenagers. No one cried for her. No one screamed her name. No one volunteered. It was so quiet, even as the man in the suit applauded her with jarring claps. No one joined in. No one wanted to.

“Congratulations, Yerim!” the man cried, that stupid smile still plastered on his face. “Well done on being the first tribute for District 12!”

Yerim barely looked up from her feet as she approached the man, her entire body visibly trembling. It was obvious to Renjun that she hadn’t expected to be chosen. Her name was probably only in there a few times – nowhere near as many as Renjun’s was. Maybe he was being insensitive, but Renjun had always thought that shock was easier to overcome when you were already prepared for the outcome.

“Now, let us see who will be joining the lovely Yerim in the arena,” the man continued, waltzing over to the other bowl and rifling through its contents with just as much theatrical grandeur as the previous one. The people watching from the Capitol were probably having the time of their lives with this show.

Renjun’s heart felt like it was somewhere in his throat as the man stood in front of the microphone, brandishing the paper like it held all the answers to life’s questions. Yangyang’s grip was so painful that Renjun was sure it would leave bruises behind, but he didn’t care because he was holding Yangyang’s hand just as tightly.

He could hear the paper slide against itself as it unfolded, even above the pounding of his heart. He had prepared himself for every eventual outcome, but he couldn’t quite quell the anxiety that thrummed through his veins.

The man smiled as he read the name on the paper, and Renjun could hear it before he even read it out. It was okay. Renjun had prepared himself for this too. He held Yangyang’s hand tighter even though he knew he was going to have to let go.

“Huang Chenle!”

xxx

Yukhei blinked at the screen. He blinked again. Did he just-

His father was oddly silent from where he sat in his crushed velvet armchair, his pen hovering over the paper in his clenched fist.

Even the Pink Woman and the Yellow Man sounded surprised, something they usually masked with ease whenever they were on air. For a split second, this boy, this _volunteer_ , had caused their masks to slip, and Yukhei wasn’t sure what to do with that information.

His father, on the other hand, had plenty of ideas.

“He may be small, Yukhei, but I can bet you money that that boy is as fast as a ferret,” he said, jotting something down in his little book. Yukhei couldn’t tell what his father’s writing said, but he didn’t really care either.

Huang Renjun.

That was the boy’s name. The boy that had volunteered.

Yukhei wasn’t sure what had thrown him off more: the fact that there would be more than one volunteer this year, or that Renjun had barely reacted as he volunteered to take his brother’s place as tribute. It had almost been like Renjun was expecting it, whether that was to be chosen or to volunteer, Yukhei couldn’t tell.

In that moment, Yukhei thought that Renjun could kill him. Yukhei could probably kill Renjun first if he wanted to, but he didn’t. That would defeat the purpose of his plan. If his plan worked, Yukhei wouldn’t have to kill a single person, and he’d be dead within the first day. The thought of his name gleaming in the sky as one of the first fallen tributes brought him a twisted sense of relief. The moment the canon boomed through the arena would be the moment that he didn’t have to do it anymore. His life felt like a constant competition, a constant series of events in which he had to prove himself as worthy. Worthy of what, Yukhei wasn’t sure, but that was the problem. Yukhei didn’t know what he was living for anymore. He didn’t know if he’d ever been surer of anything than his desire to just… cease to exist.

Yukhei’s father had been right when he said that Renjun was small. Even through the screen of his television, Yukhei could tell that the boy from District 12 was tiny, only a few inches taller than the crying girl standing next to him. At first glance, they looked weak. Yukhei would probably be able to kill them both in less than a minute. But, that was only at first glance. Upon second, or even third glance, it wasn’t hard to miss the fire in her eyes or the determined clench of Renjun’s jaw. They maybe looked small and delicate, but even someone like Yukhei’s father could tell that was only the surface, only the tip of the iceberg of these two tributes.

Even though there were still several reapings to go, Yukhei amended his plan.

Not only was he going to die, but Huang Renjun was going to kill him.

xxx

“Huang Renjun!” Yuqi screamed as she burst through the doors, tears streaming down her pretty face in the unprettiest of ways. Her eyes were bloodshot and her wild hair looked untamed, and Renjun honestly thought she was going to punch him.

“Huang Renjun, if you die, I swear I’m going to kill you,” she growled, storming angrily into the room with the rest of his family hot on her heels.

Chenle wasn’t looking much better than their sister, his own dark hair standing on end as he ran his fingers through it with shaking hands, guilt marring the soft skin of his face. Sicheng looked as white as his shirt and Renjun wouldn’t be all that surprised if he vomited right then and there. He looked guilty too. Renjun knew why.

Finally, his mother stood in the doorway with a puzzled looking Shuhua hanging off her hip, clinging to their mother like a baby monkey. She wasn’t crying, nor did she look angry, but Renjun couldn’t decipher the look in her eyes, couldn’t tell what she was going to do once she got her hands on him. Beside her stood his father and Kun, both of whom were covered in patches of coal dust after spending their morning working in the mines, their helmets clutched in their blackened hands. Kun looked angry too, while his father looked like he was moments away from either shouting Renjun’s head off or bursting into tears. Renjun didn’t know what would be worse.

Renjun swore he had been fine until now. He had been fine when he let go of Yangyang’s hand and volunteered himself in Chenle’s place. He had been fine, even as he heard his siblings scream his name, their voices raw and pained as he made his way towards the man in blue. He had been fine as he stood next to a shivering Yerim, ignoring the congratulatory applause from the grinning man. He had been fine when the peacekeepers ushered both him and Yerim into separate rooms to await their families. He had been fine as he sat with his own thoughts, preparing his goodbyes again and again even though he had already planned them in his dreams for days.

Renjun had been fine… until he wasn’t.

Suddenly, he felt like he couldn’t stand anymore, his weak knees buckling underneath him as he fell to the floor. It was cool beneath is hands, an icy relief from the sweltering summer heat. His eyes weren’t stinging anymore, but that was only because he wasn’t trying to hold back the tears anymore, allowing them to fall freely down his face as he took huge, heaving breaths. It felt like someone had stuck their hand down his throat and were squeezing his lungs so tightly that he couldn’t breathe.

“Junnie! Junnie! You need to try and control your breathing.”

Renjun could hear his mother’s voice, could feel her hands holding him, could smell the rosemary in her hair, but at the same time she seemed so distant, so far away, and Renjun. Couldn’t. Breathe.

“Junnie, my angel, it’s okay,” she soothed, caressing his hair so gently that he wanted to cry even harder. “You did a good thing. You saved your baby brother. I wish you didn’t have to. We all do. But we love you, more than anything in the world. You’re our Junnie. You’ll always be our Junnie, no matter what happens.”

_No matter if you live or die._

Renjun knew that the chances of him winning are low. He knew that the odds would _never_ be in is favour because he’s from District 12, and people from District 12 aren’t supposed to be winners. He knew that he’d be up against career tributes and trained hunters and homicidal maniacs. He knew that the chances of him dying were higher than ever.

Renjun knew all of this, but he wanted to win. As his mother held him, and as his siblings cried, and as his father watched it all with a broken heart, Renjun prayed that for once, the odds _would_ be in his favour.

Renjun prayed because he didn’t just _want_ to win. He _needed_ to.

xxx

Yukhei ignored Kunhang’s pleas. He ignored his brother’s defeated cries.

He hadn’t known that Kunhang’s name was going to be picked, he couldn’t have, but it was almost like he had. His plan was working perfectly. Too perfectly. It was the most perfect thing he had ever done in all his life. So, he pretended not to notice Kunhang, because everyone else was doing the same. Now that his brother was no longer tribute, Yukhei was the centre of attention.

It made sense, this way. Kunhang had always been the weaker twin. He had always been smaller, always been thinner, always been the slowest to learn. It wasn’t that he was worse, it was just that Yukhei was better. Yukhei was made for this. Every last pore on Yukhei’s face, every last hair follicle, every last skin cell, all of it had been carefully cultivated by their father. He wasn’t just a career tribute. He was _the_ career tribute. He had been raised to do what his father had done, only better. He had been raised to be his father’s second chance at winning the games again. If Yukhei won the Hunger Games, he wouldn’t – his father would. If Yukhei died in the games, his father would too. Maybe that’s what was urging him to go through with his plan. The urge to die hadn’t been enough for him to do it himself, but the thought of seeing his father suffer was enough to offer himself as a volunteer. As a sacrifice. 

As he stood on the podium beside the other tribute, a girl he did not know, Yukhei couldn’t stop the grin pulling at his mouth. It grew wider and wider, and could’ve easily been mistaken for bloodlust, but that wasn’t why Yukhei was smiling. No. His plan was working. It was working, and soon it would finally be over. Yukhei kept smiling as the camera’s focused on his face – focused on his Capitol smile.


	2. chapter ii: the mentor

Kim Doyoung was a strange man, Renjun decided.

Not Capitol strange. He didn’t wear strange outfits or dye his hair strange colours or cover his cheekbones in glitter. He didn’t speak like he was constantly reading from a script, and he certainly never smiled with all his teeth on display.

Kim Doyoung wasn’t Capitol strange. He was just _strange_ strange. Everything about him seemed out of place but exactly where it was supposed to be, at the same time. Nothing about him was especially notable, other than the black patch of fabric resting over his left eye. His hair was an unassuming shade of black, his clothes were all varying shades of grey and he didn’t talk very much. It was the lack of anything notable that made Renjun decided that Kim Doyoung was strange. The man didn’t seem to have any quirks or eccentricities, no airs or graces. In fact, Renjun believed that the older man had no interests in anything whatsoever. His favourite drink was probably water.

That wasn’t so much an assumption as it was an educated guess.

In the ten minutes Renjun had known Kim Doyoung, the man had made his way through three glasses of water and didn’t show any signs of slowing down.

The man in the blue suit, who Renjun now knew was named Ten, had greeted the two tributes upon their arrival on the train, hair still blue, smile still wide. With what was obviously a practiced speech, Ten had led Renjun and Yerim down an endless corridor until both of their brains were filled with so much information they had forgotten how the tour had started. Ten had explained that they would be on the train overnight as he showed them their rooms, both of which were nicer than anything Renjun had ever seen in his life. It amazed him that this train had enough space to house his family and their neighbours. He imagined how excited Chenle and Yuqi would be if they were able to spend the night somewhere so luxurious. Then he remembered that they could have. He suddenly didn’t feel so pleased by the sight of satin bedsheets or pillow mints.

After showing them the bathrooms, all of which contained showers (the likes of which Renjun had also never seen before), Ten led them into the bar compartment. Inside, lounging in a bar stool with a tall glass of icy water, sat the strange man.

“Renjun, Yerim,” Ten smiled at the two teenagers respectively, “let me introduce you to Kim Doyoung. He will, of course, be your mentor during your time in the Capitol.”

Renjun frowned as he eyed the man – Kim Doyoung. He looked young-ish, maybe around the same age as Kun. His dark hair was brushed away from his forehead, showcasing a disinterested gaze coming from the one eye not covered by an eyepatch. His clothes looked like they could have either been rather expensive or sewn together by Doyoung himself. He took a sip of his water before giving both Renjun and Yerim nods of acknowledgement, but not much else.

Yes, Renjun decided. Kim Doyoung was very strange.

“Mentor?” Yerim asked in a small voice, her fingers toying with the ruffles on her dress. She had stopped crying hours ago but she still walked about like a terrified animal, like she was expecting something to jump out of the shadows and pounce. Renjun could hardly blame her.

“Why, of course, my dear!” Ten cooed with a grin. “You didn’t expect to be sent into the arena completely unprepared, did you?”

The silence from both Renjun and Yeri that followed was enough of an answer. Ten’s smile faltered again, like a mirror cracking, and Renjun felt a sense of relief. Ten was just as human as he was.

“As if I can prepare them for what’s in there with a _pep talk_.”

Ten and the two teenagers turned to face Doyoung. He was still slouched against the bar, still clutching his water, but his eye was now fixed on them. Rather, his eye was now fixed on Renjun, who only barely repressed a shudder when he realised.

Renjun hadn’t noticed before, in the dull lighting of the bar, but he could see it now. Doyoung’s eye was a startling shade of grey, cool and icy like the water he drank. It focused itself on Renjun, took note of his barely tamed hair, his scruffy clothes, his shaking hands stuffed into his pockets. Renjun felt as though he were underneath a microscope, inspected down to the very last cell.

For an eye so fascinating, it told nothing. It was empty.

Renjun thought that Kim Doyoung was strange, and at first he couldn’t put his finger on why, exactly, but now, _now_ , he realised.

Kim Doyoung was as tasteless as water, as vibrant as a grey sky, as interesting as a book with blank pages.

Renjun was terrified, maybe even more so than when Ten read out Chenle’s name. He had never been invested in the games before, had never wanted to be. Watching children his age massacre one another in bloody fights to the death was not something Renjun had ever wanted to see. He had never let himself think about it too much, even a few years before when Doyoung, someone from his own district, won the games. Renjun hadn’t let his thoughts linger on what the games did to a person, but it was clear now. The Hunger Games sucked every last ounce of life out of you until you were no better than a walking corpse, and Renjun was terrified. It didn’t matter if you won. It didn’t matter if you were given a house in the victor’s village and ended up with more money than you’d ever need. It didn’t matter because, for people like Renjun and Yerim and Doyoung, for District 12, winning was just as bad as dying.

Renjun was terrified because Kim Doyoung was empty.

Doyoung left not long after the introductions with nothing more than one last paralysing stare and his glass of water in hand, leaving Renjun and Yerim to suffer through Ten’s stories of life in the Capitol.

Renjun listened as Ten regaled them with tales of grand parties, endless plates of food and fountains of wine, every guest dressed in something different but equally as expensive as the next. He told them about the music and the dancing, the kind that made your head buzz and your feet hurt as it went on into the early hours of the morning. He told them snippets of gossip, about who was seeing who, and which celebrities were wearing what designer - things Renjun couldn’t be less interested in.

As Ten continued to speak, his smile never wavering, Renjun found himself growing angry.

He was angry that these people could grow up without having to worry about a single thing: food, water, light, clothes, the games – none of it was a concern to them. He was angry that these people lived lives of luxury, spending their nights in beds the size of his house, while Renjun and his family struggled to make ends meet on a daily basis. He was angry that these people, with their outlandish hair and Capitol smiles, saw him and his people as nothing more than entertainment, saw their deaths as nothing more than a way to pass the time.

“Oh! And I _must_ tell you about President Lee’s niece,” Ten continued, oblivious to the rage boiling inside of Renjun, completely enraptured by the way Yerim seemed to be hanging onto his every word.

That made him angry too. These people, people like Ten, were so entirely fake, but they fooled everyone they encountered into thinking that they were real. They had life so easy and Renjun wanted to shatter Ten’s perfect teeth. He clenched his fists and tightened his jaw so imperceptibly that neither Ten nor Yerim seemed to notice. His teeth hurt with how hard he gritted them, an aching pain that would’ve made him wince had he not been so silently furious.

Ten went on and on and on, and Renjun grew angrier and angrier and angrier. Yerim’s wide eyes never strayed from Ten’s beautifully false face, nodding innocently as she listened to his voice, his sweet voice that never once betrayed his cheerful façade. Renjun felt sick. He could suddenly feel the way the train rattled along the tracks, shuddering underneath their feet and rattling his skeleton inside his body. He could feel the bread he had eaten that morning churning in his stomach and the scent of coal on his clothes invaded all of his senses. Ten hadn’t stopped speaking, hadn’t noticed that Renjun had barely paid him an ounce of attention. He was still telling Yerim about the president’s niece’s best friend’s something or other, and Renjun felt sick.

“Excuse me,” he muttered through gritted teeth, standing up abruptly and halting Ten mid-sentence.

“Oh my, are you alright?” the older man asked, and even though he sounded concerned, he didn’t look all that worried. Renjun felt sick. Ten’s mask made him feel angry and nauseous. He needed to get out of here. If he could, he would jump out of the moving train, but that wouldn’t be helping anyone. He didn’t know where he was, how far they were from District 12. Even if he did know that, the train was moving so fast that the jump would probably kill him.

Renjun just needed to be alone. Without another word, he stormed out of the carriage, not allowing himself a chance to be fascinated with the way the door opened automatically. He ignored Ten’s calls, and even Yerim’s, her voice louder than Renjun had ever heard it. He ignored everything as he wandered the corridor of the train in search of something, somewhere, anywhere. He just needed to be alone.

“You’re not what I expected.”

Renjun paused, startled eyes flicking up as he hovered in the doorway. It was dark outside the train now, any traces of the golden sun wiped from the sky. Renjun wasn’t sure how long he had been in his room, but enough time had passed that the orange clouds had made way for a sheet of shadow-less black. And for his stomach to start making desperate noises, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything for several hours.

To say Renjun was surprised upon finding Kim Doyoung standing outside of his door was an understatement. If the man hadn’t spoken first, Renjun might not have even noticed that he was there. Doyoung was still dressed in the same grey clothes as earlier, the shade of which almost camouflaged him against the sleek metal of the train’s interior. His dark hair could easily have been mistaken for the night sky had his skin not been so starkly white in contrast.

There was a pregnant pause in which Renjun nor Doyoung said a word, the metallic clang of the train the only sound filling the air.

Renjun wasn’t sure why Doyoung was waiting outside of his room. The man hadn’t seemed particularly interested in either him or Yerim when they met, and Renjun certainly hadn’t considered the fact that Doyoung may have thought about this enough to have expectations of what Renjun was like. But alas, Renjun’s own preconceived notion that Kim Doyoung was strange was only being proven truer by the minute.

“Neither are you,” Renjun eventually responded, because it was true.

Renjun didn’t know all that much about Kim Doyoung. He hadn’t watched the games the older man had competed in, and eventually won. He didn’t know what Doyoung’s arena had been like, or how he had killed the other tributes, or how he had survived it all without losing more than an eye. Renjun didn’t know much about Kim Doyoung, but even then he had subconsciously created an image in his mind. He still wasn’t sure if Doyoung matched up with it.

“So you know who I am.”

Doyoung’s words were low, almost as though he were talking to himself rather than Renjun.

“Not really,” Renjun shrugged, because that was also true. He had always been a terrible liar. The first time Kun had caught him sneaking back through the fence that separated the Seam from the forest, Renjun had barely lasted a minute before he cracked. Kun hadn’t had the heart to shout at his younger brother when Renjun brandished a handful of wild herbs with a proud smile on his face, hadn’t stopped Renjun from breaching the border time and time again. Renjun missed him.

“You don’t?” Doyoung asked, although he didn’t sound particularly surprised. Most people in District 12 tended to avoid watching the games if they could. They already saw enough death and desperation on a daily basis, there was no need to make it worse.

“I know that you won the games when you were fifteen,” Renjun replied, finding it difficult to look Doyoung in the eye, because the grey of his iris was endless and so, so unsettling.

“Hmm,” Doyoung hummed, but Renjun couldn’t tell what it meant. He didn’t know if he had said something wrong, something right, or something that landed somewhere in the middle.

“Nothing else?”

Renjun shrugged again. “No, not really.”

“Aren’t you curious?” Doyoung asked, tilting his head slightly.

Renjun frowned. “What?”

“Aren’t you curious about me?” Doyoung repeated. “Most people are.”

“I’m not most people,” Renjun pointed out. He didn’t care for the Hunger Games, hated them in fact. He didn’t see the victors as heroes or celebrities. He saw them as people, broken and left to rot in the sun. People like that, broken people, they didn’t deserve to have their lives invaded and speculated about.

“That appears to be true,” Doyoung nodded, more to himself than anyone else. “Yes, you’re certainly not what I expected.”

“Why? Because I volunteered?” Renjun asked defensively, his skin prickling uncomfortably under Doyoung’s insistent gaze.

“No,” Doyoung shook his head. “No, not because of that.”

“Then why?”

“You’re smaller than I expected.”

Renjun looked down at himself, feeling rather affronted. As a child, he had never been particularly insecure about his height. He had always been a little smaller than his friends and older siblings, but that had been okay with him because they were all a little smaller than they wanted to be. Then they all began to hit puberty. Sicheng shot up like a bean pole the summer before he turned fifteen, leaving the rest of them, even Kun, in the dust. Renjun had accepted that because Sicheng was older, so obviously he would be taller. What Renjun had found a little harder to accept (and was possibly still in denial about) was Chenle’s own growth spurt. Somehow, the sixteen-year-old was nearly the same height as eighteen-year-old Sicheng, leaving the rest of the family vaguely confused. It was sort of an anomaly, that two of the Huang children were pushing six feet tall. Everyone else was small, and it had always been that way.

Renjun had thought that he had gotten over the worst of his jealousy, but something about Doyoung’s comment hurt a little more than it should’ve.

“Right,” Renjun deadpanned, his face blank as he glared back at Doyoung, not letting the eye deter hum this time.

Suddenly, Doyoung cracked a smile, and Renjun felt like he had been pushed off the train, only to be saved at the last minute. It was nothing like Ten’s smile, like the fake smiles of the Capitol, but something about it didn’t seem real either.

“I like you,” Doyoung announced, and there was the faint hint of amusement in his voice, like he hadn’t laughed for a while and couldn’t quite remember how.

Renjun’s neck almost hurt from the conversational whiplash. Was Doyoung trying to be… _funny_?

Doyoung didn’t wait around long enough for Renjun to find out.

“Goodnight, Renjun,” he said as he turned on his heel and started walking back down the corridor. Renjun stood in his doorway, unsure of what to do with himself, when Doyoung paused and turned his head around to face him again.

“You might want to get to the food carriage soon,” he said, the smile on his face having dimmed to a small smirk. “Yerim seemed to be enjoying that roast chicken.”

xxx

Johnny Seo was exactly what Yukhei had been expecting. He was tall and muscular, arrogant and brash, a career tribute down to his very core. He was who Yukhei’s father wanted him to be.

Yukhei hated him.

It probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference even if he did like Johnny. Yukhei wasn’t here to make a good impression, he wasn’t here to make friends, nor enemies. He wasn’t here to win.

The train journey into the Capitol wasn’t a long one, but it was long enough that Yukhei wanted nothing more than to be left alone mere moments in. Johnny had spent the better part of their introductions bragging about how he had won the Hunger Games at the age of twelve with nothing but an axe as a weapon. It was redundant, really, because Yukhei had already seen those games. He had been forced to watch them every year of his life. The sight of missing limbs, pools of blood and screaming faces affected him no more than his own reflection. Yukhei wasn’t sure which one he hated more.

It was clear that Johnny had taken an immediate liking to him, despite Yukhei’s silence and permanent face of indifference. Yukhei knew that he was tall, knew that his body was lined with hard muscle, knew that, objectively, he had an attractive face. It seemed that Johnny had thought he was seeing a part of himself in Yukhei, and he was clinging onto that with every one of his vicious smiles and egotistical comments. He probably thought that he had found a friend in Yukhei.

He was wrong.

“Ah, Yukhei, I’m glad you’re here with us,” Johnny sighed, leaning back in his chair with a wine glass hanging from his hand. The liquid it held was a shimmering red, that glistened in all its gruesome glory. “Can’t say I don’t feel bad for that brother of yours, though,” he added with a laugh. Yukhei didn’t even crack a smile.

“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” the girl – Joy – asked. The smile in her voice was very fitting of her name. If Yukhei hadn’t decided that he hated her already, he would have probably thought that she was pretty too.

“Don’t have a lot to say,” he replied with a shrug, taking a sip from his own glass. He hadn’t refused the wine when Johnny offered it to him, but he wished that he had. It was lukewarm in his mouth and it tasted oddly bitter. It wouldn’t surprise Yukhei if Johnny spiked his wine with the blood of his enemies or something equally as gory.

“That’s a smart tactic,” Johnny complimented, uselessly, in Yukhei’s opinion. No matter how many times Johnny attempted to woo him with flattery, Yukhei wasn’t giving in. “Saving all your energy for the things that matter. Like winning the games. I like that.”

Joy clapped her hands excitedly, as though Yukhei winning didn’t imply her own death.

Yukhei simply nodded, the taste of wine still stuck to his tongue.

“Not that I thought you’d have any issues with winning to begin with, but it’s easy pickings this year,” Johnny continued, outright ignoring Joy’s adoring gaze. “The tributes from the outer districts are the weakest I’ve seen for a long time.”

Yukhei almost frowned at that. He thought that Johnny, of all people – someone who had competed – would know not to judge these people by the way they looked. He thought of that boy from District 12, Huang Renjun. Yes, he looked small, but he didn’t look helpless. Yukhei was confident that he could kill him, but he was sure that Renjun would put up a fight if he tried.

“And that volunteer from 12? He’ll be dead in minutes,” Johnny scoffed. Yukhei hadn’t realised that the older man had still been talking. “The girl too.”

Yukhei did frown at that. He remembered that girl, how scared her face had looked, how wide her eyes were. He remembered his father laughing at her too, saying that she didn’t stand a chance. She probably didn’t, but then again, only one of them would.

“Their mentor shouldn’t have even won the games,” Johnny added, followed by a sip of wine. Yukhei’s frowning had obviously gone unnoticed.

“Why’s that?” Joy asked cutely, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. Yuhei scoffed internally.

“He only killed one person,” Johnny explained, and Yukhei suddenly found himself rather interested. People like his father and Johnny had killed at least half of the tributes in the arena, and with drive and tempers like theirs it was hard not to. Coming out as the winner with the blood of only one person on your hands was practically unheard of.

“How?” Yukhei found himself asking. Maybe he could do the same. Maybe, he wouldn’t have to kill anyone at all. Maybe, he could die in peace.

“The desert,” Johnny answered with a wry smile on his face. “Waited until every last one of the other tributes died from dehydration. He just happened to be the last one. He barely made it out of that place alive.”

Joy was practically hanging off the edge of her seat, her knee bouncing excitedly. “And the one he did kill?”

“It was his sister,” Johnny laughed, as though he had told some endlessly funny joke. “She stabbed him in the eye, so he knocked her out with a rock and left her to die in the tundra. Some other tribute found her and that was that. He couldn’t even do it himself.”

Yukhei could hear the silent “coward” in Johnny’s voice, and it made him hate the older man even more. People like him, like Johnny, had always been taught that people from District 12 were below them, that they were no better than the coal they mined.

Yukhei disagreed. If anything, he thought that the career tributes were the cowards; selfish and ruthless. Yukhei had never met someone from his own district who would be willing to sacrifice their own life in order to save another. He had never met someone willing to die so that they didn’t have to harm others.

In that moment, Yukhei decided that he was going to meet Huang Renjun. He decided that he was going to help him win, if it was the only good deed he ever did.

xxx

Breakfast the following morning was nothing like the solemn affair of bread and tears Renjun had shared with his family. As the train zoomed towards the Capitol, getting closer and closer by the second, Renjun and Yerim were offered a breakfast like nothing they had ever seen before. Even if Yerim’s family had been far better off than Renjun’s, they were hardly rich, and surely had never been able to provide a spread such as the one laid out in front of them.

Ten was his usual chatty self as he sipped daintily on a cup of tea, his pinkie raised ridiculously. Doyoung’s face showed no evidence of his smile as he sipped on his water, barely humming in response every time Ten asked him a question. Renjun decided that, even though Doyoung was rather strange, he liked him. Trusted him, even. Doyoung didn’t put on a mask every morning. He didn’t pretend to be anything other than who he was; a victor, yes, but one that was far from victorious. Renjun wondered if he wore that eyepatch more for the sake of other people than himself.

“I just can’t wait until you see what your stylists have in store for you!” Ten squealed excitedly, startling Renjun as he shoved a slice of jam-smothered bread in his mouth. It was sweeter than anything he had ever tasted, but he couldn’t fully enjoy it, not with the pit of guilt that weighed down his stomach. Yerim, on the other hand, seemed to be having the time of her life, humming happily after every bite. She reminded him a little of Yuqi, with her innocent doe eyes and pretty mouth, and it brought a faint smile to Renjun’s face, a little warmth to his aching heart. It pained him to think that she would probably be dead two weeks from now. Not that he believed he would fare much better.

“Will I get to wear a pretty dress?” Yerim asked, an excited glint in her eyes. Or maybe it was a speck of Ten’s body glitter. Renjun couldn’t be too sure.

“Why, of course, my dear,” Ten smiled, and this time his eyes seemed to hold the same amount of glee as the rest of his face often pretended to. Beside him, Doyoung snorted quietly into his drink, but Ten either didn’t notice or acted like he hadn’t.

“And you, Renjun,” Ten added, his bright eyes trained on the younger boy. “You will finally get to wear the clothes of your dreams.”

Renjun frowned. “I’ve never dreamed about clothes before.”

“What?” Ten gasped, as though Renjun had just admitted to kicking puppies in his spare time. “But-but I thought that-”

“Not everyone is as materialistically inclined as you, Ten,” Doyoung scoffed, with just a twinkle in his eye betraying the mirth in his voice. Ten’s face started to take on a muted shade of red, one that contrasted nicely with his blue hair. Yerim seemed to notice too, letting out an amused giggle. Renjun felt his own mouth pull into a smile, but he didn’t laugh.

In this moment, Renjun could almost forget. He could almost forget where the train was taking them and what was awaiting them on the other side. He could almost forget that Yerim wasn’t his friend, that she could just as easily kill him as she could befriend him.

Renjun could almost forget it, but not quite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i hope you enjoyed reading this chapter! i actually had a lot of fun with this one, mainly through the introduction of doyoung's character hehe.  
> please let me know what you think so far, this is probably my favourite fic i've written, even if the concept and ship aren't overly common.


	3. chapter iii: capitol smile

Yukhei felt somewhat like a plucked chicken as he stood beside Joy near their chariot. Every last inch of hair below his eyebrows had been ripped from its follicles and his skin felt raw as his clothes rubbed against it. They were both draped in fabric that looked like melted gold, flowing over their bodies in a way that revealed just enough skin, but not so much that either Joy or Yukhei felt uncomfortable. It didn’t really matter, though – Yukhei felt uncomfortable despite the clothes. His skin itched under the eyes of the other tributes, burning into him with their powerful gazes. They all saw him as competition. They all hated him already.

The tunnel was filled with the chatter of the other tributes and their mentors, echoing against the walls like a ringing bell. Some of them had their stylists there too who fussed with stray locks of hair or the odd loose thread. Yukhei’s own stylist was brushing some sort of shimmering gold powder across the exposed parts of his chest, tickling the skin slightly, but Yukhei wasn’t paying attention to her. Nor was he paying attention to Joy, who was still trying her hand at flirting with Johnny, who was still finding new ways to brag about his victory. They were both persistent, he’d give them that. Practically made for each other.

Yukhei found his own eyes scouring the length and breadth of the tunnel in search for District 12’s tributes. He could see District 4’s mounting their chariot, clad in shimmering blue that told of their home’s industry. His gaze glossed over District 10, the earthy tones of their own clothes doing nothing to catch it. Where on earth…

Ah. There they were. There _he_ was.

Huang Renjun.

He was small, just as Yukhei had thought he would be, but he didn’t look weak. In fact, the smooth, black silk of his clothes and the dark shadows painted around his eyes made him look fierce. Intimidating even. He wasn’t smiling or laughing, and neither was the girl beside him. The two tributes looked to be listening intently to whatever their mentor and the man with blue hair were saying to them, talking in hushed tones that scarcely bounced off the tunnel’s walls.

Yukhei didn’t have to be able to hear them to know what the older men were saying. He had never got the same speech, never needed it, but he had overheard it. He wasn’t like the tributes from District 12. He didn’t need to make people like him. Yukhei knew that he already had a number of sponsors ready to wait on him hand and foot once he was in that arena. Those from the outer districts, on the other hand, needed to make a good impression. How well they were received by the public was a matter of life and death.

The expensive clothes on Renjun’s body and the makeup on his face was more than just a fashion statement – it was an opportunity to show that he was worth more than his district, more than his heritage. If Renjun made the right impression, he’d have a chance of surviving in the arena.

He wouldn’t need to.

Yukhei spared the smaller boy one last glance before Johnny’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, urging him towards the chariot.

Even though he didn’t know it, Renjun was going to win.

xxx

“Just… _try_ to smile. Even a just little,” Doyoung sighed as Renjun stepped up onto the chariot. His clothes felt stiff and his limbs felt like they were being pulled by a puppet string. The skin around his eyes itched too where the makeup artist had smudged black paint. Ten told him it was something called eyeliner, a trend that was currently taking the Capitol by storm, but Renjun just thought that he looked a bit like a rabid racoon.

“What if I don’t want to?” he challenged, turning to face Doyoung with a blank stare. Doyoung just stared right back.

“Unless you want to die, you’ll smile.”

“Is that what you do? Smile when faced with a life or death situation?”

Doyoung laughed out loud at that and pointed to his own face, his mouth spread in a painfully exaggerated grin.

“Of course. Have you seen this smile? Who would want to hurt me? I’m adorable.”

Renjun snorted a laugh, one that ended up sounding more nervous than amused. Doyoung’s smile faded slightly and reached an arm out to pat Renjun’s back.

“Look, just go out there, pretend you’re enjoying yourself, and leave. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Renjun muttered, his voice small.

“That’s it,” Doyoung nodded reassuringly.

With one last comforting pat, Doyoung drew his hand away and stepped back from the chariot. Yerim turned to him with a nervous smile playing on her glossy lips.

“You ready?” she asked quietly, her voice shaking a little.

“No,” Renjun whispered, cracking a smile of his own.

“Me neither,” she admitted, and Renjun reached out to take one of her shaking hands in his own.

“If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you,” he said lightly, because in a place like this, his words could just as easily be taken as a threat as they could a joke. Yerim responded with a weak laugh before letting out a shuddering breath. Her palm was sweaty against Renjun’s, and it reminded him of the way Yangyang had grabbed his hand at the reaping. Now, that felt like nothing more than a distant memory.

Their chariot shuddered to life, and into the lion’s mouth they went.

xxx

It was amazing, really, how so many people Yukhei didn’t know acted as though they were proud of him.

It wasn’t as if there were people lining up to tell him, but he could feel it in the way they looked at him. Half of the audience watched him like he was their own son, and the other half looked at him like he was a piece of meat.

The latter half made him want to crawl out of his own skin. He knew what happened to pretty victors from the wealthier districts. He knew that if he won, there would be women and men alike lining up to have him. To buy him. He may be the Capitol’s favourite, but that didn’t matter because he would always be from District 1. It didn’t matter if the public ate up every smile or ever sliver of bronzed skin, because in the end, he wasn’t one of them. It didn’t matter that his family were wealthy, that his father was a victor, because he would always, always just be seen as entertainment.

Even if Yukhei didn’t already want to die, he wasn’t entirely sure he would want to win either. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure he wouldn’t.

It amazed him how many strangers acted proud, yet his father hadn’t even managed to say goodbye.

His mother had visited him before he left for the Capitol, and for once her teeth weren’t bared in that terrifying smile Yukhei had grown so used to. She had stood several feet away from him, her arms wrapped around herself in a way that made her look so much smaller than he had ever seen her. She hadn’t said a word as she stood huddled in front of him, shrinking in her red dress and shoes, hiding behind her mask of red lips and nails.

“Your brother hates you,” she had said after a while, her voice sounding just as small as she looked.

“I know,” Yukhei had answered, looking her in the eye even though she was avoiding his.

“He never wants to see you again,” she had added, one of her fingers picking at the crimson polish on her thumb.

“He won’t,” Yukhei had replied. He didn’t specify what he meant by that, and his mother didn’t ask.

“Okay,” she had said instead.

“Okay.”

And then she was gone, leaving nothing but the scent of dried roses behind.

As the chariot made its round, Yukhei tried to block out the deafening cheers and the adoring screams of the people sitting in the stands.

Suddenly, Joy’s hand slipped into his. His initial reaction was to pull away, but then he realised what she was doing. She was doing what they had been made for. She was doing what they would always have to do. She was putting on a show.

The cheers grew increasingly louder, reaching a fever pitch when their clasped hands rose into the air. Yukhei knew that Joy was grinning widely, charming the people with her innocent face and natural charisma. Yukhei knew that they looked good together, and if they were desperate, they could have easily pushed the whole “golden couple” image to garner sympathy from the public, but they weren’t desperate. They weren’t District 12.

They were Joy and Yukhei. They were already victors in the eyes of their district.

Once their faces left the screens, replaced by the tributes behind them, Yukhei let their hands drop despite Joy’s faint noise of protest.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, and Yukhei now knew why she had volunteered, why she was so excited about all of this: Joy was dangerous. Her sweet face and pretty smile were nothing more than a mask. They hid the danger that lay underneath, the bloodlust in her veins, the anger that kept her breathing.

If Yukhei wasn’t just as dangerous as she was, maybe even more so, he would be scared of her.

“Let’s not do this,” he muttered, ripping his hand from hers as subtly as he could. The screen was filled with the smiling faces of the tributes from District 11. 12 would be next, he reminded himself.

“Do what? Make ourselves look good for sponsors? Yeah, good one,” Joy scoffed, her tone giving away her irritation even if her smile didn’t.

“Pretend,” Yukhei whispered. “They’ll get their entertainment no matter what.”

Joy sighed through gritted teeth. “You’re not what I thought you’d be like.”

“Good,” Yukhei smiled. “That’s good.”

The crowd cheered once more, drowning out whatever Joy wanted to say in response. Renjun and the girl’s – Yerim’s – faces filled the screens, their eyes surrounded in black, their cheeks glowing, their smiles forced. Yukhei could tell. He saw the same thing every time he looked in the mirror. It was a practiced smile, the kind you put on at funerals, hiding the grief and pain and anger hidden behind your eyes.

Renjun was scared. If Yukhei could tell, then there was a chance that he wasn’t the only one.

xxx

Renjun was scared. He was terrified.

As he lay in bed, eyes fixated on a miniscule crack in the ceiling, he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop his thoughts from spiralling. He concentrated on the crack in the otherwise perfect plaster, a strange imperfection in a world otherwise so perfect. Everyone in the Capitol seemed so perfect, so beautifully fake, that any flaw was almost impossible to ignore.

His smile had been exactly that, a flaw, easily noticeable amidst a world of straight teeth and grinning mouths. Even if their smiles seemed fake to Renjun, his looked like nothing more than a grimace. As he and Yerim had entered that stadium to the shouts and screams of the Capitol, Renjun had wished that he were anywhere else. He had wondered what his family were doing. He imagined them, huddled amongst their neighbours in the Hob, eyes fixed on the big screen the community shared with each other. He imagined them watching him, eyes wide, as his face appeared, hidden under makeup and faux excitement. He tried to imagine their faces too, but it hurt. If he thought about Chenle’s smile or Yuqi’s eyes, or even Sicheng’s frown, it hurt.

Even now, hours later, lying in a bed that was big enough for five of him, it hurt. But so did all of his thoughts.

Renjun decided that sleep would not be coming any time soon, so he flipped back the silky covers of the bed and swung his legs out, his skin prickling as it came into contact with the cool air whirring from the fan on the ceiling. That was just another strange addition to Renjun’s list of things he wasn’t used to. He was accustomed to suffering through hot summers with sweaty clothes and burnt skin. The only chance to cool down was if the wind picked up. Not even a cold bath was possible, not when the metal tub warmed under the sun and heated the water in minutes.

He had expected to find the living room empty at such a late hour, so when he found Doyoung curled up on the couch with a glass of water, he felt a little awkward. Renjun didn’t know why he felt like someone was about to jump out and reprimand him every time he did something of his own volition.

“I won’t bite unless it’s necessary.”

Renjun startled at the sound of Doyoung’s voice, but it didn’t scare him. He padded over to the armchair sitting parallel to the couch and dropped into it with a tired sigh.

“Can’t sleep?” Doyoung asked as he poured some water into another glass, offering it to Renjun.

He took it with a grateful smile. “Yeah. I think I’m just nervous.”

“I think you’re just scared,” Doyoung said in a matter-of-fact tone. Renjun gave him a blank stare, even though he knew the older man was right.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’re not fooling anyone, especially not me. I’ve done this before, you know.”

“I know,” Renjun nodded. His eyes trailed to the huge floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the walls of the penthouse. From here, Renjun could see the skyline of the Capitol, the neon lights shining like stars against the night sky.

Usually, at this time, the Seam would be silent. Crickets would chirp and owls would hoot, but that would be it. Here, in the Capitol, it couldn’t be more different. Sirens blared and motors revved, and people cheered. It was all so… unnatural, but then again, that seemed to be the nature of things here.

Renjun lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip of water. It was cool in his mouth and tasted surprisingly sweet. He could understand why Doyoung liked it so much.

He turned to face the older man, a question burning the back of his throat. “Doyoung?”

“Hmm?”

Renjun gulped, fiddling with the hem of his pyjama top. It was strange to be wearing something that wasn’t frayed at the ends. “Can… can I ask you something?”

“I feel like you’ll ask me even if I say no,” Doyoung laughed quietly. His grey eye looked strangely bright in the darkness, the lights of the city reflected in its depths like the rays of the sun against a river.

“Probably,” Renjun agreed with a laugh of his own.

“Well then,” Doyoung sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Go ahead.”

Renjun paused for a moment, took another sip of water, and fixed Doyoung with a stare.

“Why do you drink so much water?”

Doyoung let out a sharp laugh, a little too loud in the quiet of the penthouse. If he were outside, the sound would’ve gone unnoticed.

“Is that it? Is that what you want to ask me?”

Renjun shrugged. “For now.”

Doyoung nodded, but his smile slipped a little. The room filled with a thoughtful silence before he decided to speak.

“Did you watch the games the year I competed?”

“No, my parents wouldn’t let me,” Renjun replied, shaking his head. He had been young at the time, too young, his parents had deemed, to watch something as horrible and as gruesome as the Hunger Games.

“Then you have good parents,” Doyoung said, a tight smile on his face. Renjun wondered if the same could be said for Doyoung’s. By the look on his face, probably not.

“That year was one of the worst,” Doyoung continued grimly. “The arena. The tributes. The game makers. All of it. I barely survived it all, and sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

Renjun felt his blood run cold. If the games could be so horrible once, who was to say it wouldn’t happen again? Who’s to say that these wouldn’t be the worst Hunger Games yet?

“What happened?” he asked, his breath shuddering as he spoke. If Doyoung noticed, he chose not to comment on it.

“What didn’t?,” Doyoung snorted, although he sounded the furthest thing from amused. “Everything about those games played to the extreme. The arena was a desert, dry and hot during the day, relentlessly cold by night. There was barely anywhere to hide, and the first few hours were a complete and utter bloodbath, literally. The sand was red for days.”

Doyoung paused, bringing his glass to his lips and taking a generous gulp. His hands were shaking.

“How did you win?” Renjun asked, and there was a slight tremor in his voice. He shouldn’t have asked. He shouldn’t have been so curious. Any hope he had left was diminishing by the minute.

“I didn’t. I survived. The Cornucopia had water, enough to last a while if you were careful. Most of the other tributes, the ones that were doing the killing, got too confident and thought that they would be able to find water somehow. They didn’t. They couldn’t. No one could. The only reason I lived was because I happened to be better at rationing my water supply.”

It was all beginning to make sense now. The puzzle was beginning to piece itself together in Renjun’s mind, and he didn’t like the way it was looking.

“Is that why you drink so much of it now?”

“I suppose so,” Doyoung hummed thoughtfully. “It’s like an addiction. If I don’t drink it, or try to drink anything else, my mouth feels dry, like I just chewed a mouthful of sand.”

For a brief moment, Renjun almost felt like crying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, although he wasn’t sure which part of Doyoung’s story he was sorry for.

“Don’t be. It’s no use feeling sorry in here, for yourself or anybody else,” Doyoung advised, before scratching at the skin underneath the band of his eyepatch.

Renjun knew that he shouldn’t, but he wanted to ask another question.

“Can I ask you something else?”

Doyoung laughed again, something about it seeming a little more strained than before.

“Depends on the question.”

“Your eye…”

“No,” he interrupted, cutting Renjun off before he could even finish the question. Renjun flinched at the sharpness of Doyoung’s voice, wary of the lack of the smile on his face.

“No?” Renjun echoed, his own voice sounding so much weaker than Doyoung’s.

“No,” Doyoung confirmed, softer this time. “If you really want to know, I’ll tell you when you win.”

“I could just ask someone else,” Renjun said pointedly as Doyoung stood up from the couch, his knees cracking audibly as he did.

“You could,” Doyoung agreed, picking up his water jug. “But you won’t.”

Without another word, Doyoung left Renjun to wallow in his own silence and dread, awaiting the things to come.

Renjun didn’t think that a mere week of training would be nearly enough to prepare him for the arena, especially if it ended up being like Doyoung’s. He swirled the water in his glass before downing it down to its last dregs. Somehow, his mouth still felt dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hope you enjoyed this chapter! sorry this one was a little shorter and more of a filler, but it was kind of necessary for the plot to progress :)  
> thank you so much for reading, any and all feedback is always appreciated <3


	4. chapter iv: tribute training

It was all so familiar. The tang of metal, the scent of sweat, the thud of arrows hitting their target. It was familiar, and it made Yukhei feel sick. Nothing about the training room brought him comfort, not like it did for Joy, or Jaehyun and Yeji from District 2. Excitement didn’t thrum in his veins at the sight of the gleaming spears and axes. His heart didn’t thud at the thought of feeling the string of a bow between his fingertips. His hands didn’t itch to throw his knuckles into a punching bag.

They had, once. When he was younger, much younger. Training used to bring him excitement and purpose. Now it was nothing more than a reflex, an instinct. It wasn’t an interest nor a hobby, but something that was embedded deep in Yukhei’s DNA, so tightly interwoven that he could never forget it, never get rid of it, no matter how badly he wanted to.

“Isn’t this just the best place you’ve ever seen?” Joy sighed happily, running the tip of her finger against a particularly sharp knife. She barely let out a gasp when the metal sliced her skin, blood blooming from the wound like a horrible rosebud. Yukhei imagined how easy it would be to take the knife from her and slit her throat. He imagined it, could picture it with crystal clarity, but he didn’t want to do it. He _could_ do it, as easily as blinking an eye. He could slit her throat and watch as she slumped to the floor, blood spurting out in the most gruesome of ways and pooling onto the ground around her. He could do it just as much as he couldn’t.

“Oh my god, look at those daggers!” Yeji squealed, clapping her hands like a little child. “They’re so pretty!”

“They’re cute,” Jaehyun laughed as he approached them, proudly brandishing a shining axe. “But this is the real deal. Isn’t she a beauty?”

Yukhei felt ill. He hated the way they glorified these weapons and romanticised death. It made him sick to his stomach that they spoke about these things as though they were their lovers, these means to harm, to hurt, to kill.

“What do you think, Yukhei?” Jaehyun asked, turning to face the taller boy. “Pretty sweet, right?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Yukhei muttered disinterestedly, not deigning to give Jaehyun much more than a quick glance before his eyes began to scan the training area. There was someone he would very much like to meet.

Jaehyun, obviously offended by Yukhei’s lack of interest and general air of indifference, scoffed loudly. “Jeez, man, who pissed in your cereal this morning.”

“Don’t mind him,” Joy snorted, wiping her bloody finger on the fabric of her trousers. “He’s always like this.”

Yukhei almost cracked a smile at that. It was hilarious, really, that after only knowing each other a day or so, Joy thought that she _knew_ Yukhei. It was funny, because not even Yukhei knew himself. He’d never been given the chance. He didn’t know if he had any interests or skills outside of fighting. He didn’t know if he could be funny or charming. He didn’t know if he could be the type of person that someone could fall in love with. Joy simply couldn’t know what Yukhei was always like, because not even Yukhei knew that himself. He didn’t know, and he never would.

“You know, man, you could try a little harder,” Jaehyun snapped, hoisting the axe onto his shoulder. He probably thought that it made him look cool and foreboding, but Yukhei thought it made him look awkward and uncomfortable.

“A little harder at what?” Yukhei asked, returning his eyes to Jaehyun with an apathetic stare. He didn’t really care what Jaehyun had to say, but he’d humour the guy. Just this once. If nothing else, he’d get a laugh out of it.

“I don’t know, making friends? Allies? Getting sponsors to like you?” Jaehyun listed condescendingly, as though he had done this all before. “It’s almost like you don’t even want to win.”

Yukhei had been right. Call him humoured. He let out an amused laugh, one that left Jaehyun’s face twisting into a bewildered frown.

“Yeah, almost,” Yukhei chuckled, ignoring the confused looks Jaehyun exchanged with the girls.

Suddenly, Yukhei felt more powerful than he ever had in his life; even after all the fights he had won, even after all the teeth he had knocked out and the blood he had spilled. It felt good to make these people hate him. It felt good to be able to control their opinion of him with one sentence. It felt good, because he felt like he was in control, for the first time ever. All those fights, all of the training – it had never been on Yukhei’s terms. He had never asked for it, never wanted it, but he had done it anyway because a few broken fingers from another teenager was better than a cracked tooth and a slew of angry, belittling words from his father.

“You’re so…” Joy paused, staring at Yukhei with a face of incredulity. “You’re so _strange_.”

The way the words fell from her mouth, withered and cold, made it sound like so much more than an insult. They almost sounded like a death threat. Yukhei fucking loved it. If Yukhei’s plan didn’t work, if Renjun didn’t kill him, he’d still be dead in a matter of minutes because these tributes hated him enough to do it. One wrong word from Yukhei and he’d be done for.

After all, every plan needs a plan B.

xxx

Even though Renjun wasn’t a frequent watcher of the Hunger Games, it was hard for him to ignore the whispers about the career tributes: the teenagers from the wealthier districts who spent their whole lives training for this one event. Renjun had always known about them, had always been vaguely terrified of the idea of them, but now that he had seen them, he almost wanted to laugh. They had always seemed vaguely mystical to Renjun, callous and untouchable, but seeing them now was just downright comical. They were teenagers, just like him. They weren’t gods, no matter how they tried to paint themselves. Sure, they were attractive, strong and incredibly skilled in the art of warfare, but they were nothing more than human beings. They bled just like Renjun did. They could die just like him too.

The moment the four of them stepped into the training room, the quiet chatter from the other tributes seemed to halt, as though royalty had just entered. They kind of were, Renjun supposed, in the grand scheme of the games. They were treated better from the start, even if no one wanted to admit to it. They were wealthy, advantaged, and above all, extremely arrogant about those facts. They treated the title of victor as a birth right; something deserved rather than earned. The whole idea of career tributes was odd to Renjun. He couldn’t imagine living his whole life for the purpose of fighting to the death – to him, it was hardly a purpose at all, but rather a sad, hopeless dream. Of the four career tributes, only one would win. He knew that they travelled in packs, like hungry wolves, but in the end, they would rip each other apart for the title of victor. To devote your life to something like that…

Renjun couldn’t see the appeal and didn’t believe that there was any.

“Woah,” Yerim uttered quietly, her wide eyes fixed on the group of tributes. If Renjun wasn’t so jaded, he would probably be looking at them the same way. They were extremely good looking, all four of them – tall too. One of the boys towered over, not only his friends, but the rest of the tributes, like a tree in the middle of a field of flowers. For a moment, Renjun found his eyes travelling the length of the boy’s body before looking down at himself. He sighed internally. There was no way he was winning this thing.

“I don’t know what’s got you all excited,” Renjun grumbled, raising an eyebrow at the look of sheer awe on Yerim’s face. “They wouldn’t hesitate to kill you if they had the chance.”

Immediately, Yerim’s face dropped and her eyes turned cold.

“You couldn’t have just let me have my fun, could you?” she moaned, her voice laced with equal measures of sarcasm and fear. Renjun would have almost felt bad for his comment if it weren’t for the way Yerim’s mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile.

“No, I’m a fun vacuum,” Renjun teased, even though it was partially true. Yangyang had always complained that Renjun tended to take things a little too seriously. Suddenly, he rather missed his best friend. Even the constant teasing and whining.

The room seemed to slowly return to its original state once the shock of seeing the career tributes had worn off, but Renjun could still feel a sense of unease permeating the air amidst the scent of metal and sweat.

“Do you know how to use any of this stuff?” Yerim asked as her eyes wandered the room, taking in all the various training stations. Renjun wasn’t even entirely sure what half of it was, while the other half looked so dangerous that he could feel his skin prickle with goosebumps.

“Nope,” he replied with a short laugh, warily eyeing the rows of deadly looking blades that lined the walls. The closest Renjun had ever got to a weapon was when he helped his mother cook dinner.

“Neither of us are going to make it,” Yerim sighed as she looked back at the career tributes, and Renjun barely repressed a shiver as he watched them stare lovingly at a particularly nasty looking axe. Well, all of them but one. The tall boy - the one that looked like he could take Renjun down with nothing more than a flick of his pinkie finger - had a strange expression on his face, one that made him look like he’d rather be anywhere else but there. His face wasn’t doing anything in particular, but that was what made it seem so strange to Renjun. Shouldn’t this boy be buzzing with excitement? Wasn’t this what he lived and breathed for? Shouldn’t he be itching to get his hands on one of these weapons and terrify all the other tributes with his skills?

Renjun racked his brain, trying to remember his name. Ten had probably told him at one point or another, but Ten said a lot of things, most of which Renjun tended to stop listening to after a while. He’d need to ask Doyoung. Trying to get a straightforward answer from Ten was similar to taking the scenic route of a journey rather than the most logical, efficient one.

Just as Renjun turned to face Yerim again, the tall tribute let out a laugh. A chill went down Renjun’s spine at the sound, creeping along his skin like a spider. That laugh… something about it sounded so pained. So sad. So heart-breaking. Renjun had never heard a laugh like that, and he hoped he never would again.

“C’mon, let’s figure this shit out,” Renjun muttered, grabbing Yerim by the elbow and urging them towards the survival area – as far away from those tributes as they could possibly be.

“I thought you said you didn’t know how to use any of this stuff?”

Renjun and Yerim were tucked away in a corner, huddled around a small, flickering fire the younger boy had managed to set alight.

“I don’t,” Renjun affirmed, letting out a quiet hiss when a sparking ember landed on the bare skin of his arm. “Well, not the weapons anyway. I grew up in the Seam, of course I know how to survive.”

He chose not to tell her about the nights he and Yangyang would spend in the woods, sneaking out after curfew to gather plants and hunt for animals. His best friend had been the one to show him how to light a fire with nothing more than a stick, and how to set traps for small animals like hare and squirrels. Renjun almost laughed. In the end, all of the scolding from his parents and Kun, all the near misses with the peacekeepers, all of it had been worth it in the end.

“Is it really as bad as everyone says?” Yerim asked after a little while, her eyes trained on the flames licking into the air. “Living in the Seam?”

Renjun shrugged, using another stick to stoke the fire. “Depends on what people say.”

“That it’s dirty and smells bad,” Yerim replied meekly, _carefully_ , as though she were worried that she was offending Renjun. “That families sleep in one room. That sometimes you have to eat coal dust when there’s no food.”

“Huh,” Renjun marvelled, letting out a short laugh. “I’ve never tried that before. Might give it a go the next time we run out of rice.”

Yerim’s eyes moved to Renjun’s face, a pitying frown on her own. He couldn’t tell if she felt sorry for his family, or pitied him for his optimism. “So it’s all just rumours?”

“No,” Renjun shook his head, sighing as he met her gaze. “You got the other parts right.”

“Wait, don’t you have like five siblings?” she asked, her frown deepening into a stark line across her brow. “How do you all fit in the same room?”

“The same way you fit clothes into a drawer,” Renjun joked in an attempt to lighten the mood. He wasn’t enjoying the conversation, wasn’t particularly thrilled about discussing his life with Yerim. He wasn’t here to make friends, he silently reminded himself. He couldn’t afford to.

“What, fold yourselves into neat piles?” Yerim snorted, and Renjun snickered quietly, the sound drowning out the crackling flames.

“No, we shove everyone in and hope we all fit,” he laughed, and for a second, Yerim stilled, like she wasn’t sure if it was a joke or not, didn’t know if she was allowed to laugh too.

But Renjun’s giggles never stopped, even as they teetered on the verge of hysteria, and soon Yerim was joining in. Some of the other tributes training nearby stopped to look at them, confusion marring their faces, and rightly so. Even though the games had yet to begin, the atmosphere had been serious and tense between all of the tributes since the opening ceremony the night before. The sight of two tributes cackling loudly would be one to behold in all of its shocking value. To the untrained eye, Renjun and Yerim’s laughter could have easily been mistaken for joy, but that was far from the truth. Even if amusement had started their fit of hilarity, at some point along the way, panic and fear had curled inside them like smoke swirling from the fire.

Their cries of laughter were exactly that: cries.

Renjun’s hands shook and his heart pounded and laughter rang in his ears, reverberating like the aftermath of an explosion, and Yerim did the same, mirroring that fear with every fibre of her body. They both knew that they had no chance at winning, no chance at life. Renjun had never hated District 12 more in his life.

In his fit of laughter, Renjun’s eyes caught sight of the tall tribute, and something akin to jealousy seeped through the pores of his skin like sweat. Maybe, if he was one of them, he could win. Maybe, if he had been born nearer the Capitol, he would be more prepared. Maybe, if the world wasn’t so fucked, he would have a chance.

But those were all just maybes.

Renjun recalled something Yerim had said to him their first night on the train. Ten had left them to their own devices in the food carriage, gorging themselves with whatever food they could fit into their mouths. There was a lull in the conversation as Renjun tried to work his jaw around a particularly massive chunk of bread when Yerim spoke.

“I think what you did for your brother was really brave, by the way.”

Renjun had stopped chewing at that point, his whole body going still. There was a smudge of sauce on Yerim’s mouth and he had to stop himself from reaching out to wipe it away. God, he missed Yuqi.

“Thanks,” he had muttered, swallowing the mouthful of bread with some difficulty. “But I didn’t do it because I’m brave. I did it to save him.”

Yerim had simply nodded, like she understood. Maybe she did. Maybe she had someone she would’ve done the same thing for. Renjun felt a little a guilty that he knew next to nothing about her.

“You really love your family, don’t you?” Yerim had eventually said, returning her gaze to her nearly empty plate. For a moment, Renjun wondered if she was going to lick it clean. Even he was tempted to do so.

“I’d do anything for them,” he had replied, and that had been the end of it.

It was true. It was true then, while the pain of leaving his family was still fresh, still raw. It was true now as he laughed numbly, sounding jagged like a scar. He would. Renjun would die for them. He was going to.

xxx

Yukhei’s fingers ached, but his brain registered the pain as nothing more than a faint prickle of his skin. Sweat trickled down his face, his neck, his back, but he ignored the way the fabric of his shirt melded itself to his skin. His breathing was steady, but a little quicker than usual, his chest heaving gently with each exhalation.

He remembered the times that feeling like this - in the aftermath of a fight - left him with a sense of fulfilment, like he had accomplished something. The rush of pride drowned out any pain, any exhaustion, and left Yukhei with a smile on his face.

Now, Yukhei didn’t feel like smiling. Now, Yukhei wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and never open them again. Now, Yukhei wanted it all to stop. His breathing sounded too loud in his ears, and the stinging skin of his fingers tempted him to grab a nearby knife and cut them off. He wasn’t sure how long he had been standing there; arms raised, bow poised, legs parted. Yukhei lowered the bow and turned to place it back on its hooks, only to find he was practically surrounded by the other tributes, their gazes filled with a mixture of awe, jealousy, fury and even disgust. He didn’t pause in his actions, didn’t take notice of the way the others looked at him, and simply placed the bow back in silence.

A cough sounded from a few feet away, drawing Yukhei’s attention from the gleaming metal of the bow. It was the kind of cough that people used to poorly hide a laugh or a scoff. It didn’t make Yukhei feel embarrassed or frustrated or even angry that someone was finding either him or the situation amusing, just curious. Curious as to who wasn’t fazed by his by his clear advantage and upper hand in the competition. His dark eyes scanned the crowd, his vision as sharp as a hawk spying on its prey. The room felt still, like the calm before a storm. Maybe the other tributes were expecting a storm, expecting Yukhei to unleash a slew of violent threats and calculated insults.

There wasn’t going to be a storm, because Yukhei was not who everyone thought he was.

Something – someone – moved in Yukhei’s peripheral vision, and his eyes flickered to the spot where he deduced the sound had come from. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel surprised when he noticed Huang Renjun hiding behind a taller tribute, his face a little pink as he chewed his lower lip. Their eyes met and Yukhei almost smiled at the way Renjun’s eyes widened and his flush deepened, realising he had been caught. Renjun knew he had been caught, but he didn’t look away. Yukhei wasn’t surprised by this either. Maybe he should’ve been. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so sure in his judgement of Renjun’s character before they had even spoken a word to one another. Maybe Yukhei had gotten it completely wrong and Renjun was weaker than he thought.

No.

Renjun wasn’t weak. Yukhei could tell. As their eyes never wavered, never wandered, Yukhei’s confidence grew. On the outside, Renjun may have looked flustered, but his eyes were filled with so much determination that Yukhei almost felt proud.

Suddenly, an arm hooked itself around his neck as Jaehyun appeared by his side, jostling Yukhei slightly and tearing his gaze from Renjun. A strained smile pulled at Jaehyun’s face, like it pained him to do so.

“You’re pretty decent with a bow,” the smaller boy said, and Yukhei almost didn’t hold back a resigned sigh. He knew what Jaehyun was doing. He wasn’t being nice – he was _playing_ nice. It was called the Hunger Games for a reason, and Jaehyun wanted to use Yukhei as a pawn.

xxx

“Wong Yukhei.”

Renjun looked up from his plate, a forkful of steak clutched tightly in his hand. Doyoung was sitting in his usual cloud of indifference, his grey eye as deep as a shimmering pool.

“Hm?” Renjun frowned, his brain failing to recognise the name spilling from Doyoung’s mouth.

“You asked me the name of that career tribute from 1,” Doyoung shrugged, as though he couldn’t care less about Renjun’s competitors. In all honesty, he probably didn’t. “He’s called Wong Yukhei.”

“Oh, is that the really handsome tribute Renjun laughed at yesterday?” Yerim asked teasingly, her eyes glimmering with faint amusement. She had spent the past day teasing him about the pinkness of his cheeks when Yukhei caught him laughing. He hadn’t been able to hold it back, not with the way all the other tributes were watching Yukhei with barely concealed wonder, like he was some god amongst men. It was amusing to Renjun, and when he found something funny, he laughed.

“Yerim, he could kill you with his pinkie finger,” Renjun deadpanned, his eyes returning to glare resolutely into his steak and potatoes.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not hot,” she pointed out cheekily, chomping happily on a mouthful of her own food.

“Whatever,” Renjun huffed, partly because Yerim vaguely annoyed him, and partly because she wasn’t completely wrong.

Renjun wasn’t blind. He knew Yukhei was attractive. He was tall and dark and handsome; all of the things Renjun wasn’t. He couldn’t even deny the fact that, for the smallest of moments, he had felt a little starstruck when Yukhei’s eyes had locked with his own. Thankfully, he had quickly rid himself of such a feeling, remembering that Yukhei wasn’t some boy he had met at school or in the streets of District 12. He wasn’t even someone Renjun could admire from afar. Yukhei was someone that would kill Renjun if he didn’t kill Yukhei first. Yukhei was someone Renjun should be scared of.

So, why didn’t he feel terrified? When Yukhei’s dark eyes fixed themselves on Renjun’s face, why did he not want to cower and hide? Why, when Yukhei’s mouth twitched before his friend pulled him away, did Renjun feel like he could do it? Why did Renjun feel like he could kill Yukhei? Why did Renjun feel like he could win?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! hope you enjoyed reading this chapter :)  
> maybe - just maybe - our two favourite tributes will finally meet in the next one...
> 
> kudos and comments are always appreciated! <3


	5. chapter v: master of manipulation

Sweet mint. Fragrant rosemary. Cloying lavender. Sharp lemon balm.

Renjun could distinguish every scent amidst the earthiness of soil, petrichor and the general smell of the forest. He could feel the dampness of the earth between his fingers, could feel strands of dew-dampened grass tickling the skin of his legs. Somewhere, deeper in the forest where the sunlight was weaker and the foliage greener, birds cawed and twittered excitedly as they swirled into the pale skies of the early morning sunrise. 

The sound of a branch snapping caught Renjun’s attention, interrupting the tranquil silence of the forest. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled nervously as his eyes scanned the surrounding area and his heart began to beat a little faster when they failed to find anything other than more trees that seemed to go on forever. The forest seemed so familiar yet so _un_ familiar at the same time, and a strange feeling, something like déjà vu, washed over Renjun. Another branch snapped, and this time it sounded so much closer than before. His hands clutched anxiously at the loose soil beneath him, dirt catching underneath his nails as he tried to ground himself, tried to quell the overwhelming sense of panic that pounded blood into his heart.

 _Snap_. Another branch. _Snap_. Another. _Snap_.

It wasn’t a deer or any other animal. It was a person, Renjun could tell from the rhythmic evenness of their footsteps, and they were getting closer.

_Snap._

_Snap._

_Snap._

_Sn-_

Renjun’s eyes opened with a start, immediately focusing on the crack in his ceiling. He frowned as he placed a hand over his beating heart where it pounded in his chest. His shirt was damp with sweat and Renjun winced as he peeled it off his body, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.

What had he been dreaming about?

Renjun tried to remember, tried to cling to the vague memories that dwindled in the back of his mind, but the harder he tried, the more distant they grew until all he could remember was something about trees and earth. His heart began to slow, but a strange ache settled in his bones, one of heartbreak and exhaustion as his memory tried to grasp at the last tendrils of his dreams, like clouds of evaporating smoke. This feeling, this ingrained pain, was all too familiar. Two years had passed, but the wound didn’t seem to want to heal, the scar still raw, its edges still jagged. Suddenly, Renjun didn’t want to know about what he had dreamt.

It was still dark outside, the kind of darkness that could either be eleven at night or three in the morning. From his window Renjun could see the skyscrapers that filled the Capitol’s skyline, neon lights flashing on his face and reflecting in his eyes. He squinted at the clock on his bedside table, letting out a tired sigh when the red numbers blinked back at him. 4:03. It was early – _too_ early – and Renjun wanted nothing more than to drift back to sleep, but his brain was far from tired, far too used to late nights followed by early mornings.

Kun and his father were probably both getting ready to go down the mines back in 12, dressed in sooty clothes, clutching their worn helmets. Shuhua was probably awake too. Even as a baby she had been a restless sleeper, something she didn’t seem to be growing out of even as she neared the age of six. Yuqi, Chenle and Sicheng would still be asleep. Renjun could imagine them, sprawled across the floor underneath ragged blankets, breathing deeply as a candle flickered in the corner of the room because Yuqi claimed that she was afraid of the dark even though they all knew she was just covering for Chenle.

Renjun wanted to cry. Thinking about his family only made him realise how much he really missed them, which only made him realise how sad that made him feel. Renjun wanted to cry, so he did.

xxx

Yukhei didn’t even need to look at his reflection in the mirror to know that he looked like death warmed up. He could already tell that his eyes were bleary and rimmed with dark circles, that his lips were dry and pale, that his hair was sticking up at all sorts of odd angles. Yukhei already knew what he looked like, but he glanced at the mirror anyway, visibly cringing as his eyes scanned his face. It was four in the morning, yet Yukhei hadn’t slept a wink, his eyes dry with how long they had been open. The funny thing was that Yukhei hadn’t even realised he hadn’t slept until he caught sight of the alarm clock sitting beside his bed, the red numbers gleaming tauntingly in the night like the eyes of a predator, threatening him with the horrifically early time.

The tap turned on with a faint squeak and cool water poured into the sink and Yukhei’s cupped hands, letting the water pool in his palms. He splashed it on his face again and again, but it was almost like his face had been injected with anaesthesia because each handful of water didn’t feel like anything as it washed over his skin. He didn’t feel any better, nor any worse, just numb.

This thing, this insomnia, had been going on for so long that Yukhei couldn’t recall the last time he had actually slept an entire night. It was an exhausting thought, one that made him feel like he had been awake for years.

A knock, sharp and unwelcome, sounded behind him, knuckles rapping loudly against the bathroom door.

“Yukhei?”

It was Johnny.

“Yukhei, you ready for training? I told you, four sharp, didn’t I?”

Yukhei gave his drawn reflection one last tired look, using the back of his hand to wipe away a stray droplet of water trickling down his chin, before opening the door to face his mentor.

Johnny’s face and hair were a far cry from the sleep deprived mess Yukhei had just witnessed in the mirror, hair perfectly styled, eyes bright and shadowless, skin clear and glowing. Yukhei hated him.

“Well?” Johnny pushed expectantly, resting his long body against the door frame with practiced suavity. “Joy’s waiting, you know.”

“I’m coming,” Yukhei sighed, not bothering to force a smile, knowing that it would look so much worse than the grimace already pulling at his mouth. Johnny’s own smile faltered, his eyes trailing Yukhei’s face with unwavering scrutiny.

“God, you look like shit,” the older man muttered, making no attempt to hide the way his brow curled in thinly veiled disgust. Yukhei couldn’t find it in himself to feel even remotely offended by Johnny’s comment, not because it was true, but because he just didn’t care. Johnny could’ve told him that he’d never looked better and Yukhei would have still felt this strange sense of numbness, the kind that left you feeling cold and empty, the kind that didn’t allow you to feel tired even whilst on the verge of exhaustion, that didn’t let you dream no matter how deeply you slept, the kind that didn’t let you cry no matter how intense the pain.

It was better this way, Yukhei thought as he pushed past Johnny. It was better that he didn’t feel anything. Feelings, no matter how weak, would complicate things, would complicate Yukhei’s plan. It was better this way, and Yukhei was willing to do everything in his power to keep it like that.

xxx

The training room was mercifully empty when Renjun entered and he could feel his skin prickling with the metallic coolness of the air, hair standing on end as his eyes wandered the gleaming blades so sharp he could feel them pricking his skin with just one glance.

He hadn’t told anyone - not Yerim, not Ten, not even Doyoung - that he was going to train so early. He hadn’t planned it, but nothing that had happened in recent days seemed to be part of any kind of plan, certainly not one Renjun had approved of. Not the reaping, not the dreams, not the imminent promise of death. None of it.

Hastily, he moved his eyes from the sharp knives and swords, shivering imperceptibly at the thought of coming face to face with any of those weapons. Instead, Renjun found his attention drawn by the bow and arrow hanging beside the dented targets, evidence of previous practice sessions - some better than others, Renjun supposed, eyeing the marks that scattered the perimeter of the targets, only a few of which reached the centre. Probably the work of a career tribute. Someone like Wong Yukhei.

Renjun would probably rather die than admit it aloud (and maybe he would, with the games starting in only a few days), but he had been impressed by Yukhei’s performance. The way Yukhei’s hands had grasped the bow with a strange tenderness, the way his fingers had pulled the string taught with practiced ease, the way his dark eyes had focused intently on the target as he let the arrow fly – Renjun was embarrassed to think that he had been somewhat mesmerised by Yukhei. By a career tribute. By a killer.

With a strange, unfamiliar surge of determination, Renjun stalked towards the bow and arrow, his hands grabbing the smooth metal of the weapon with shaking hands. The bow slid against the skin of his palms, damp with a sheen of cold sweat.

As he raised the bow, he tried to remember what Yangyang had taught him all those months ago in a sunny clearing of the forest.

“Relax,” Yangyang had said, his voice light with amusement. “You’re too tense, like you’re constipated – wait, you’re not actually constipated, are you?”

Renjun’s heart clenched painfully at the memory. God, did he miss his best friend.

He and Yangyang had met when they were barely able to walk on their chubby little legs, waddling around together while their mothers mended holes in their clothes, the soles of their tiny feet growing black with the thin layer of soot that seemed to cover every spare inch of every surface in the Seam. Renjun couldn’t remember much from back then, but he could recall their mothers laughing softly when he had tripped over his own, clumsy feet, only for Yangyang to do the same. Their mothers would tell them that the younger boy had done the same on purpose, following in the footsteps of his only friend, and Yangyang would adamantly deny such a thing, betrayed only by the fond curve of his mouth and the gentle brightness of his eyes.

Just like he had done back then, standing in the glade, surrounded by wildflowers beneath a canopy of green leaves and chirping birds, Renjun loosened his grip on the bow, his fingers curling around the weapon in a way that almost mirrored Yukhei’s own hold. No matter how much Renjun tried to relax, though, he couldn’t help the tension that held onto his shoulders like two gripping hands, digging into his skin and permeating through it to the bones that lay beneath. Renjun felt stiff and clumsy as he attempted to place the arrow against the bowstring, and he could feel a frustrated flush beginning to colour the pale skin of his neck as he failed time and time again to place it properly.

“You need to relax.”

Renjun stilled, pausing mid-sigh. He had thought the room would be empty for a little longer, but perhaps he had been too hopeful. Renjun had clearly forgotten who he was going to be up against.

The voice was one Renjun didn’t recognise, but somehow, he could already tell who it belonged to. He felt his skin itch with irritation under Wong Yukhei’s analysing gaze, those dark eyes leaving Renjun feeling so much smaller than he was, even if he already barely reached Yukhei’s shoulders.

“I know,” Renjun muttered defensively, not deigning to give Yukhei even the faintest of glares, too worried about what his face would do when their eyes met.

You see, Renjun always seemed confident until he wasn’t. One wave of doubt and Renjun was restored to a stuttering mess, words tripping over a clumsy tongue while bitten fingernails picked at hangnails. Renjun wasn’t a fool, nor was he delusional. He knew he would freeze, ice cold and unmoving, if he let himself look Yukhei’s way. He had already embarrassed himself in front of the taller boy before and it wasn’t exactly on Renjun’s list of top priorities to do it again.

“It’s your sho-”

“My shoulders,” Renjun interrupted, voice harsh and cutting like the shining blades that lined the walls. “I know, I’m trying.”

Renjun still hadn’t turned to face the taller boy, but out of his peripheral vision he could see the faint movement of Yukhei shrugging.

“Alright, I was just trying to help.”

Yukhei sounded more bored than anything, his words - which should have sounded somewhat dejected - were nothing more than empty shells washed up on a foaming shore; pretty on the outside and in their sentiment, but hollow and void of any real meaning. Yukhei probably meant for his words to come across as apologetic, but they were nothing more than an aimless sympathy to Renjun.

Then, Renjun realised what Yukhei had said. Help. Yukhei wanted to _help_ Renjun?

“Why?” he asked shortly, letting his arms dropped to his side along with the bow and arrow, both of which were still clutched in Renjun’s hands.

“Why not?” Yukhei countered, his voice laced with a tired drawl that made it sound like he would rather be anywhere else. Renjun could feel that same tiredness with each draw of his own breath, a kind of tiredness that lays bone deep, borne from sleepless nights and dream filled days. Maybe Yukhei was right. Maybe Renjun was too quick to judge. The thought made him feel uncomfortable.

“That’s a bit of a stupid question,” Renjun snorted with a roll of his eyes. It was obvious, was it not? The entire idea was ridiculous, a joke, even. A career tribute helping someone from District 12? Unlikely.

“Is it?” Yukhei asked, moving closer towards Renjun with measured steps. Renjun could feel a droplet of sweat trickle down the side of his flushed neck. He repressed a shiver when an unexpected breeze brushed against his skin, refusing to move in the slightest as Yukhei inched closer.

“Well, yeah,” Renjun croaked, his voice coming out weaker than he would have liked, making him wince ashamedly. “Why would you want to help me? Why would you want to turn me into more of a threat?”

“You’re not a threat to me.”

Yukhei didn’t laugh as he said this, didn’t sound amused, but all the same, Renjun felt the embers of anger in his stomach begin to flare. This time, Renjun did turn to face Yukhei, eyes blazing and fists clenched tightly around the bow and arrow, his knuckles a strained white and his cheeks coloured a promising shade of crimson.

“What, because I’m small and weak?” he spat out, his words like fury fuelled bullets aimed directly at Yukhei’s head.

Yukhei barely reacted, barely even flinched at Renjun’s fiery tone. If that didn’t make Renjun feel even angrier, Yukhei’s next words would.

“No, because I’m strong. I’ve trained all my life for this. I’ll always be a better fighter than you, no matter how much I help you.”

“Wow, thanks. Really. You’ve been a great help,” Renjun scoffed sarcastically.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, I was just stating a fact,” Yukhei apologised, although he didn’t sound all that sincerely sorry. “You can’t honestly deny that I could easily kill you in a split second.”

“No, I can’t. Which is why I’m confused,” Renjun frowned, braving himself as he stared directly at Yukhei. It really was unfortunate that someone like him had such a nice face.

“About what?” Yukhei asked, tilting his head quizzically, although the rest of his demeanour seemed anything but curious. Unconcerned? Indifferent? Apathetic, maybe? Whatever it was that Yukhei was feeling, he was doing an excellent job of hiding it. Or maybe Renjun was underestimating him. Maybe Yukhei really was the cold-hearted killer Renjun had initially presumed he would be; a master of manipulation, a king of corruption.

“About you wanting to help me, obviously. What would you get out of it?”,” Renjun replied exasperatedly, dissatisfied with the pace of conversation, if it could even be called that. It mostly felt like Yukhei was saying a lot of words in a language Renjun couldn’t understand, leaving him puzzled and a little bewildered to say the least, like someone who can’t swim being thrown into the deep end of a pool.

“I think you could kill me,” was all Yukhei offered in response, leaving Renjun just as perplexed as he had been since Yukhei had first spoken to him.

“But I thought you sai-”

“Just because I said I was stronger than you, doesn’t mean that I don’t think you could do it,” Yukhei interrupted, probably somewhat fed up with the confused furrow of Renjun’s brow. “If I wanted you to, you could easily kill me.”

Renjun stilled. It felt like his entire body was atrophying as the weight of Yukhei’s words hit him, powerful and brutal like a wrecking ball.

“Hold on a second, I’m not following,” Renjun all but stuttered as the jigsaw pieces scrambled to fit together in his head. “You _want_ me to kill you?”

Yukhei only nodded silently.

“Bu-but what if I don’t want to?”

Yukhei tilted his head again, looking a little like a confused puppy, but also a little like a predatory animal sizing up its helpless prey. Renjun knew exactly which image disturbed him more. “Don’t you want to win?”

“Well, yeah, who doesn’t?” Renjun sniffed with a raise of his eyebrow, giving Yukhei a pointed stare. “But I don’t get what that has to do-”

“Listen, it’s simple,” Yukhei interrupted, yet again, drawing a frustrated sigh out of Renjun. “I help you, you kill me, we both get what we want.”

It sounded too easy, too simple, on the surface. Yukhei sounded as though he was listing off groceries, his voice all too casual, his face all too impassive in all its dark browed, blank eyed glory. The whole situation left Renjun with a nauseating feeling of unease, churning in his stomach and burning the back of his throat. Wong Yukhei was almost begging Renjun to kill him. No, not just kill him, murder him. Renjun had barely been able to kill squirrels out in the forest at home, Yangyang often being the one to do the deed. If he couldn’t even do that, how was he supposed to kill Yukhei? How was he supposed to kill any of the other tributes?

Renjun wasn’t as stoic as people often thought he was. Just because he was quiet didn’t mean he was mean. In fact, his soft heartedness was probably his biggest secret, and ultimately his biggest downfall. He didn’t want to be here, in the Capitol. He wasn’t meant to be, but he was and all because of his own inertia, his own weakness. Chenle was too young, too innocent. He didn’t understand death the same way Renjun did. He didn’t understand life the same way either. He hadn’t yet had the chance to live, and he would never have had that chance if Renjun hadn’t volunteered.

Now, here he was, standing in front of perhaps the most dangerous person he had ever met, being asked to kill that very same person with his own hands. For a moment, Renjun wondered if this was another one of the dreams he’d been having, the ones that had been plaguing his mind and infiltrating his sleep for months. He wondered if any of this had been real, or if it had all been some strangely vivid, technicolour nightmare he was about to wake up from. Renjun wondered, but he knew it was useless. Everything was useless, he realised, as he stood in the training room surrounded by all the things that would potentially be the means to his own end.

Jaw clenched determinately, Renjun fixed Yukhei with a scrutinising glare.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know this isn’t part of some sick, twisted game you and your career tributes are playing?”

“You don’t.”

Yukhei was right. There was no way for Renjun to know if the other boy actually meant a single word he said. But there was also a slight chance that Yukhei was being honest in both his words and his intentions. Still, Renjun wasn’t sure he was willing to take that chance, not just yet.

“Then why should I agree to any of this?” he asked, waving his hands tiredly. “Whatever _this_ is.”

“Because you want to win.”

Renjun pulled his lower lip into his mouth and chewed on it thoughtfully. He hated this, hated all of it, but hated the fact that Yukhei was right most of all the things he presently hated. In an hour, he would probably be far more disdainful of the Capitol and its absurdity, or the thought that he had been ripped from his home, his family, his friends, but now, Wong Yukhei was what angered Renjun the most.

Wong Yukhei, who confused Renjun. Wong Yukhei who had confused Renjun since the first time they’d first seen each other. Wong Yukhei whose height and build made him seem like the perfect killer, but whose tired eyes and empty voice told of a pain far deeper than any of the scrapes on Renjun’s knees. Wong Yukhei confused Renjun in a way that left him wondering what the puzzle would look like despite the picture of the finished product printed on the proverbial box.

“Yeah,” Renjun breathed, his voice on the verge of trembling like a leaf in a strong gust of wind. “Yeah I do. I want to win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, i hope you enjoyed this chapter! sorry for the wait between this one and the last - i recently stared university again and i haven't had as much time to write, so most updates will probably be pretty slow for the time being :(
> 
> as always, any feedback is always appreciated! <3


End file.
